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“From what I understand about this case he’d be better in a cell,” she said.

“From what I understand about organized crime he’s about as safe here as he would be in Afghanistan.”

That made Valdon’s shoulders rise. Her eyes changed shape to accent the anger.

“Are you saying—” she began.

“He didn’t mean anything, Teresa,” Art said, cutting her off. “Joe was once arrested on false charges. Prisons worry him.”

“You were a con?” she asked on a smile.

“I was, and I am, an innocent man.” I’d had no intention of using words with such gravitas. But no matter how much I don’t want to believe it, the content of one’s heart is not make-believe.

The warden’s demeanor softened. She smiled ever so slightly and said, “Your man will be at the outer door by the time you get there.”

He was waiting for us where people moved freely. Two uniformed guards stood close by, in case he had to be suddenly rearrested, I thought.

Art Tomey walked up to the guards, shook their hands, and greeted them by name, then turned to Coleman. Tesserat was wearing a nicely cut but rumpled gray suit, and, for some reason, he still had on paper shoes. He looked haggard and a little stunned.

“Mr. Tesserat,” Art said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m Art Tomey. You already know Mr. Oliver, I believe.”

Coleman looked at me warily.

“Yeah. I know him.”

“We’re going to go down the street to a coffee shop, have a little something, and then lay down the plans for your safety and defense,” Art told his client.

Coleman either nodded or shuddered, I couldn’t tell which.

At Babylon Diner the three of us sat at a window table. I had coffee; Art only wanted water. Coleman ordered scrambled eggs with ham, bacon, sausage, a water bagel, a triple latte, and a tumbler full of orange juice.

“They have all your records,” Art said after the food arrived. “Unassailable proof that you defrauded everyone from the oil company to the federal government, from the bank to the investors who you had buy stock in the made-up corporation. There’s no way we can claim innocence or even ignorance. The only thing we can do is make a deal.”

“I need some real shoes,” Coleman said through a mouthful of bagel.

“To wear to your funeral?” These were the first words I’d said.

Coleman’s eyes flashed fear.

“The only thing you can do is make a deal,” Art said, then added, “Do you know who Tava Burkel is?”

“The first time I ever heard that name was when they arrested me.”

“That’s who the feds want.”

“I never met the man; never heard of him.” Whining comes easily when you’re helpless.

“I’ve asked around,” Art told the bailee. “People say that you’d need to get protection from the Kremlin to be safe from him.”

“So you’re telling me I can’t turn against the people I’ve worked with?”

“It seems like that,” Art agreed. I was surprised that he did so. “But the type of information the FBI wants doesn’t have an expiration date. Burkel knows that you can turn state’s evidence at any time. Do you think he’d let you live in prison?”

Either Coleman had never considered this potential outcome or it was so frightening to him that his mind couldn’t home in on it. He pushed the rest of the food away, knocking over Art’s water glass.

I was fast with my napkin while Art pushed his chair back from the table. As I sopped up the water Coleman just shook his head.

When the mishap was righted Coleman asked, “What can I do?”

“Joe?” Art said.

“We have to believe that this boogeyman of yours will know that you’re out and the threat you pose. They’ll be looking for you,” I said to Coleman. “So we need to put you someplace where you will be protected and whoever’s after you can be identified.”

“You wanna use me like bait?”

“You heard what Mr. Tomey said, brother. You are bait whether I use it or not.”

That was the standoff. Neither my ex nor Coleman wanted to look directly at the diagnosis. It’s hard to accept that your power in a situation is nil, that your only chance is to put your life in the hands of someone you hate and who hates you back.

“What do you want from me?” he asked at last.

“There’s a man in a blue Mustang parked across the street,” Art said. “Get in that car with him and go where he takes you.”

“Think about what you know,” I added, “about how you want to play this. I’ll be in touch to work out the angles.”

The hardest jobs a PI has rarely have to do with law enforcement. It’s settling beefs between criminals that’s the trickiest thing.

“Can I trust you?” Coleman asked me.

“I’m gonna do my best.”

“But you don’t like me.”

“True. But, luckily for you, that doesn’t matter. I’m going to try and save you for Aja.”

“She doesn’t like me either.”

“But she loves her mother, and keeping you in one piece is what Monica needs.”

14

I rented a Mini Cooper from a new place called Moment to Moment. It was painted periwinkle blue, a little too bright for my taste, but that was better than my own car. Too many parties were aware of my involvement; the FBI, alt-right, Russian mob, and who knew who else had my scent.

I purchased twelve burner phones at an electronics store on Twenty-Eighth Street. The work I’d taken on called for many levels of protection, anonymous communications being the top need. After that I went to visit my storage space a block from West Fourth Street. There, sitting in a comfortable chair under electric light, I called the people who needed to know how to reach me.

“Okay, Daddy,” Aja said when I told her I was off the grid for a bit. “I guess I hope you do help out Coleman. Mom’s crying all the time.”

Melquarth only grunted when I gave him my numbers.

Roger Ferris had information about Thad Longerman.

Longerman, aka Benjamin Ingram, called himself an independent consultant working exclusively for a company called Zyron International. Zyron specialized in prison systems. They built and operated private pens around the world. Thad’s position had him acquiring land while hiring architects, builders, and security forces. He also oversaw an international group of agents to man prisons, facilitate the transfer of international detainees, and investigate and also alleviate threats to the smooth running of ZI’s interests around the globe. If Roger’s sources were right Longerman had relationships with many world capitals and a shadow network of people brokers that ensured the interests of ZI.

ZI’s headquarters were located in Atlanta, Georgia, and Longerman, as Ingram, lived there at the Bentley Hotel — room number 406.

The prison’s consultant would be the hardest nut to crack. He was obviously dangerous and had backing of the highest order. The federal government might well have given him the go-ahead to grab Quiller, and his prison systems contacts would have made the crime unassailable.

Once again I had to consider whether or not to drop the case. I mean, what could I possibly learn about a crime committed in Belarus by some huge and shadowy corporation? And even if I did figure a way in, why would I put my life on the line for someone like Quiller?

I had every reason in the world to stop the investigation. If it wasn’t for Longerman’s profession I would have probably taken a vacation. But a company that specialized in prison systems, that had the power to pull anyone they wished out of one country and deposit them in another, a business whose product was the abrogation of human rights... well, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t turn my back on that.